


Exhibit 4

by Hipsterian



Category: Winner (Band)
Genre: Gore, M/M, Mature contents, Murdering, Obsessive Behavior, Stalking, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27493939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hipsterian/pseuds/Hipsterian
Summary: Minho moves to a new building.From his balcony, he can watch the beauty that is his neighbour, for whom he develops a mild obsession.
Relationships: Kim Jinwoo/Lee Seunghoon, Kim Jinwoo/Song Minho | Mino
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	Exhibit 4

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, dear!
> 
> First of all, this is a fiction work (highly inspired by CSI and Mary Higgins Clark's novels).   
> Secondly, English is not my native tongue, so sorry for all the mistakes you will find.  
> Lastly, thanks for reading this. It's not good, but I hope it can entertain you.
> 
> Thank you for your time!

**Exhibit 4**

It’s a shame that there is a building in front of his balcony, shading the views of the flowing river below, ten floors under his feet. Between the apartment complex, he can grace patches of grass, the sound of the wind and the flow of people, veiled voices, the rushing hour under the dying sunshine, glowing red and orange at the end of the horizon.

He wants more (to sightsee the city from the heigh of his new home, to watch all from his tall tower of ivory, controlling everything that happens beneath), but he is contented with what he has. He steps inside and closes the railing door, muting the muffled noises coming from the road. He pulls the curtains open to let the last strokes of light to touch his skin as he stares, contemplates the world hassling behind a glass of _Noir Pinot;_ he sips it slowly, allowing the flavours to drown into his palatal, the intense taste of the red grapes swirling beneath his tongue, letting it sink into his core (warm, reassuring, strong).

It’s then, in a glacéed moment of velvet scarlet, that he sees something pinning his attention. A swish of a movement, a lightening on pure white and gleam, a pair of round, starry eyes, looking around. A soft, candid smile painted in glossed cherry and Minho whirls his cup, cheers for this encounter, this meeting. He takes a seat with long legs crossed, and observes, eyes tracing down the pale silhouette, following him across the distance, surveying the space.

He is lovely from afar and he can only imagine his pretty face up close, and Minho traces his features in the air, caressing the picture, touching only the wind, cold and severe, coming from the night that has fallen upon the city (and he looks outside again, counts the stars twinkling in all the windows, like little constellations of hives living in warrens but he, the one living in front of his balcony, shines the most, even in darkness, he gleams and Minho closes his eyes and relishes into the moment). He stays there, in his new acquired armchair, a chequered gown over his fancy looking, very expensive, very elegant aqua-marine suit.

It is so pleasant to watch, to search his body in the dark, to see his smile, picturing the suave tone of his voice, the taste of his laughter in his lips, the perfume of his slender hands, these fine, bonny fingers, curled over him, touching, gracing, searching, his pretty lips opened, welcoming him in, kissing the air between them, nails digging, dragging, drawing patterns in red like flowers of blood and fire. He likes it, to relish into this moment, all the tension disappearing in a thin breeze with a single glance over the image reflected in the window, like a mirror showing him what he is longing for, giving in to his craving. And Minho’s hands palpitate over the glass, fingertips tracing lines of desire, watching, contemplating, eyes never leaving him, the boy from the other flat, Minho’s fantasy. It feels so liberating, to watch and not being watched, so different from what happens outside his house: he is at lost staring at him, at the separation that seems so distant but he can drink the space in between, lure him in. And Minho is so fascinated by him, enthralled, smitten by his smile, by the colour of his eyes (by all his gestures, the little dimples on his cheeks where his fingers want to travel, to bury in). He holds his phone and smirks over the screen, typing a reply to match his feelings and it pangs inside his heart, the desire to be the cause, the reason behind his glee, the one he is chatting with.

He dreams about him, about calling him by his name (a name that it’s a mystery that won’t be revealed, not just yet, that carries the weight of all of his illusion, the flavour of spring).

It takes a week for Minho to finally install his armchair in front of the balcony, to have the curtains removed (because they are a nuisance, always in the middle of his observations, always layering in front of his eyes, shadowing his fine figure, his perfect balance, his vibrant harmony, the artwork that he is and that Minho so much wants to splash with soft colours, translate into words of admiration, of love). He sits there and watches for hours, under the sun and the stars, eyes trailing his comes and goes, expecting his return with his heart on his fists, exhilarating. He reads books that Minho can’t discern, turns pages with slender hands, blinks with impossible, infinite eyes, lips half-parted, tongue poking in concentration and Minho wants to trap it inside his mouth, slow-dance with him, humming his name like a spell, lulling him to sleep. He wants to straddle him, legs entangled in a mess of limbs, colliding, his forehead on his shoulders, breathing beneath his neck, elating (fog over his voice, lust over his orbs, the books forgot, mere pages on the floor).

In a month he can paint him by numbers, has covered all the walls with sketches and draws, has his face as his wallpaper and he keeps contemplating him, stirring his imagination, his creativity. He has memorized his proportion, the shape of his mouth (like a heart he wants to own), the crisp chirp of his voice (like morning rain), the shades of his outline, his favourite jeans, how the hood falls on his face, covering him with strata, blockading his oval face that means the world to Minho (a face worth diamonds and gold).

But his name still escapes his knowledge, it’s like water between his fingers, as much as he tries, it evades him, it finds ways to run away (as if he wasn’t real: as if he was a product of his imagination, a reflex of what he yearns for, the reason that makes him hankering, a heart that thumbs after so long).

Sometimes the boy stays up all night and Minho follows him, watching him from afar. He likes to read, his pale face behind paler pages, eyes tracing idle patterns. Other times, he comes in a haze of warm water, skin glistening, hair wet and inkling, a pool of dark silk, drops licking his cheeks, caught on his lashes, falling like drew when he blinks. It is in moments like that that Minho loses his temper, runs his hands wild over his own flesh, itching over the band of his jeans. He lets them undo the zip, expose his tights, his underwear, the cold night lazily drawing on his flesh, his heart drumming, his mind blank, a white field of nothingness, eyes solely on the small figure of fine crystal, the towel around his waist and wanton painting Minho’s pupils, wide, savage, rampaging.

He is a morning person, unlike Minho, so he skips trying to see him but, if he is lucky, he can get a glimpse of him running down the streets, shirt and trousers clothing him with the uniformity of work, anonymous to the crowd, but Minho knows him, he recognises him even from the height of his building.

Minho likes to think about his doings, about the books he so avidly devours, about his favourite songs, the flavour of his voice talking to him, saying his name in the stillness of this empty silence that lingers amid them. He imagines him lying in bed, curled around him, blankets over him, head under his chin, tugged next to Minho, his hands on his side, pressing him together, enveloping him in a loving hug, kissing his forehead with all his feelings on his sleeves, openly. He likes to think about him living here, calling this place his home (calling Minho as his own). He is totally enamoured by his whereabouts, even without knowing him, he has fallen deep with his charms.

Minho swirls his whisky on the rocks, the ice clattering against the glass, the coldness spreading from his fingers to his mind. He has been good until now, has kept it low, has managed to survive through occasional glances, nothing much (nothing to worry about, only fantasies and hot hands dancing on his skin at night). He has become his muse, his inspiration, the jolt, the high he needs but now he needs more (more than just staying, hiding between the shadows, looking at him, chasing his image, chasing the thrill of observing and being observed), he is slowly becoming addict to the blurry view from behind the window, glassed, crystallised, this man breaks all the impediments, gleams through them to appear in front of his eyes, pure, sincere, unaware of a pair of eyes dancing on him, contemplating him, adoring him like a false idol, weak and shaking, mind spinning. No, it’s not enough, not sufficient to supply his craving, his venomous pleasures. He wants him so bad, his head is full of smoke from his burning desires, a firework of his eyes exploding in the sky of his mind, panting everything with his colours (with the shape of his lovely face).

He sits on his armchair, a lonely finger drawing carving patterns on the condensation flowing down, the obscure halo of his actions (hands on him, touching his own skin, gaze fully on him, averting his thought, his sins). He moans haphazardly into the darkness, ice rattling in a sweet rhapsody that mingles with his voice calling for him, laced to the movements of his fingers, imagining that it was him instead of himself.

It feels strange to come betwixt his fingers without the taste of his mouth on him, licking, nipping, leaving marks, blooming bites, the sound of his name still in the air, heavy, precious, soak with lust and desire and wanton. He is a sight to behold, to be appreciated, treasured and so Minho cheers to the night, to him, for all he wants to do with the boy below him (under his feet). He needs to know his name (for vague reasons that escape his own mind, to cry it under crumbled sheets in his bed of flowers, under the silver light of a thousand stars, moonbeams shading him with its hues, making his flesh sparkle).

He closes the lights and calls it a day (goes to sleep feeling sad and satiated).

The sun falls on him like winter rain, soft, warm, lit his features in golden. He watches him intently, the balcony open, the sun is bathing him, hands on the rail, his eyes veiled with the gleam, a new shade of brown (like melted caramel, hazel). Even after what he had done, even with the memories of the night before lingering on his head, this boy is angelic, from any angle, from any high, with a shimmering smile on pink lips that can halt the beats of his heart, can make it shake like an earthquake. Lazily, he takes out a pair of binnacles and, with his face at his reach, he smiles too, pretending to look for something else, avoiding to be catch red-handed (up close he is even more gorgeous, milky skin that feels like satin, silky under his caresses, moles that live up his whole features, little splashes of vivid colour on a spotless, flawless face).

He is such a wonder, Minho wants his hands over him, gracing the surface, pale and slim, fingers on his sleek hair, his voice filling the air, stuffed, sultry. He wants him, the boy without a name, the replica he observes every day through the window, the mirage that makes him alive again, after so many years of silence, the song of the stars, the spark that lit a fire in all the corners of his mind, erasing everything that isn’t him, replacing with ashes and soaring blazes that embroiders him deep in his core, lacing Minho to this mysterious, beloved boy. He can’t take it any more, can’t contain it, loses control. He wants to be there, cross-legged on his desk, waiting for him, arms stretched to hold his frame, fingers ready to travel down his spine, turn him into a mess of squirms and pleasure, to dutifully do on his body all he asks for (to dive into a pool of lust and desire, get lost on the ocean of his skin, sink into his eyes that are wonders, to get drunk and high with his lips on him, to halt this endless yearning, this craving that falls heavy on his chest, constricts him, forbids him to think clearly).

There is only glass and air between them and, yet, the distance feels impossible to break: as if amid them lived a thousand of universes when he is only a block away. The idea erupts out of nowhere and Minho smirks, devilishly, savouring its flavour spreading in his mind. He shakes his head with distaste, feeling silly for not realising before, for wasting so many days considering, daydreaming, instead of taking actions.

The name is Kim Jinwoo, and Minho makes sure to relish into the taste of it, the way his mouth seems to open, welcoming the sound (sweet, smooth, it rolls on his tongue perfectly, ready to be crumbled, tossed within blankets, with his chest exposed, his eyes devouring everything, hands tracing like pencils, doodling over his skin). It is so delightful to have it, finally, one of his wishes crossed from the list (and now he is one step closer to him, to his Jinwoo).

He dips into research about him. He types his name and thousands of links bloom under his gaze, skims over them, looking for the right one, scrolling down millions of pictures of people that aren’t the one. But, within an hour he finds what he is searching for and notes down his occupation, all of the displayed information, scribbling a plan to win him over.

Jinwoo is a librarian, which explains his fascination with books, which makes him even more cute, lovable, accessible. He highlights where he works at and plots to go there, have a little chat with him, introduce himself. He can't stop thinking about him, about all the things they can do between bookshelves, all the sheets he can turn over his body, all the ways he can turn him into a puddle of lust and desire, hidden beneath words and pages (he licks his lips in advance, excited, exhilarated). 

Minho pretends to be engrossed with his search, but his eyes never leave the soft, vivid figure of Jinwoo dancing around, relocating books abandoned on the tables. Without the wall that is the glass, Jinwoo looks ethereal, graceful, his pale cheeks blushed in soft hues of peach, his lips glossed, appealing, wet, his pupils marbled, ten thousands of colours: the depth of the forest, hazel and honey. And he mumbles to himself, absorbed in his work, not noticing Minho creeping on him, stalking, a hunter and his prey, ready to jump over him. But, in public, he doesn’t dare to come closer, settling for prying over ravishing, observing him on the flesh, a reality that seems a dream.

He comes to the library for a week, takes books that he won’t read, that he will leave, scattered, rejected, but it’s his chance to talk to Jinwoo, to make himself present.

Jinwoo is unbearably kind and nice and polite. He greets him with a cheerful smile and Minho’s heart thumbs, chirping, a song forming. He asks about his readings and Minho lies to him blatantly, says whatever that Jinwoo wants to hear (anything to keep his attention, everything to be under his sight, under his view). And his laugh is pure and crystalline, fresh and alive like spring water and Minho gets soaked by it, causes a torrent just for the pleasure of listening to it (like heaven bells and angels singing, he closes his lids and it’s paradise on earth anywhere that Jinwoo is).

Minho feels like he has acquired so much in so little time; he has become Jinwoo’s acquittance, he is someone Jinwoo expects and who likes to talk with (not the creep that he truly is, spying him from behind closed blinds, mantled with darkness, eyes hungry, devouring the flesh that he now is familiar with (he can point and name his moles, can feel his touch, shipping the memories of his hand on his shoulder in a friendly, cordial manner).

Hacking Jinwoo’s phone isn’t even an issue, he forgets his own and asks him if he can make a call. Jinwoo smiles and hands him, innocently, with perfect doe eyes, his device and Minho only needs to turn around and press a few keys to get him tracked. Finding him at the supermarket, or the café doesn’t come as a surprise (a pleasure, for sure, but it is very well calculated, planned), but Jinwoo is happy to encounter him even if Minho’s façade is breaking down. Jinwoo likes to listen and there are so many things Minho wants to tell him but has to bite his lips, keep them pressed inside, trapped between his ribs, a secret (because it’s too soon, Minho doesn’t want to scare him, he wants Jinwoo to come voluntary, out of his free volition, he doesn’t want to take him by force, wants to be loved as well).

He is getting closer, he thinks, his phone buzzing with yet another text from Jinwoo. Minho smiles at it, lips stretching, curbing at the edges, his heart content. He replies and avoids being seen, turns off the lights and the blinders, hides deep inside his home, somewhere Jinwoo can’t see from his window, not the same way he has been observing him from the past months. There comes another emoticon before the screen goes black dead and Minho knows this is all he will get today, walks surreptitiously to the balcony and glances down, at Jinwoo’s room, at his stark figure sitting on the chair, chatting with someone over the phone. And here comes, again, the pang of jealousy, envy from the other person at the other end of the line, making him laugh so casually, so naturally, drawing lovely smiles that aren’t meant for him (but that he still catches, keeps dear inside his pocket, memorises).

When he comes home from work he throws his bag and his coat on the floor, rushes to the window, palms on the cold glass, eyes fully open, dancing on the panel, searching the form of Jinwoo. He opens the door and steps into the wind, feels the icy breeze beating against his cheeks, grabs on the rail for support, head peeping, excited to see him, thrilled with the shape of his name prone on his lips. Fives minutes later, when the red tottering dot shows up on his phone, marking that Jinwoo is home, someone else comes in uninvited, holding Jinwoo’s hand. The air tastes hot and scratches his throat, sees red but waits, waits for more, waits for a confirmation that arrives under the form of lips fighting, touching, devouring, greedy and filthy. His head spins, clouds of rain over his mind but he can tear his glance from them, from bold kisses and hands romancing. The man holds Jinwoo close, pinned against the wall and Minho can only see shadows dancing, twined, a mass of solid darkness that reels him in, pulls him to his limits. They melt into one dazed shape, heating the room, hazing the window, dazing Minho’s senses with giggles and love sentences.

This isn’t part of his plan but, if this man is an inconvenience, a nuisance, Minho will take care of it, won’t let it take his dream away, shatter his determination, undermine his desires (his thirst over Jinwoo, his love that runs deep than the roots of the trees, unmeasurable and infinite like the sea, always wavering, always coming back to him).

He contemplates them until the window is fogged and they are nothing but hazed forms against the dark.

When the man leaves, Minho calls Jinwoo just to hear the after-taste of sex laced in his voice, the sweat on his forehead like iridescent pearls falling, feel the warm irradiating from his hot skin melting Minho’s melancholy, the solitude that Jinwoo has sheltered inside his chest, paints his life blue and iced.

It’s a few weeks later and Minho is following him, all black, hood up covering his features. He strolls with long legs, carrying the world, graceful and lithe, a wonder like Jinwoo. He is handsome, with piercing eyes like pools of ink and stars, lips made to be kissed and Minho understands why Jinwoo likes him (feels sorry for a moment, before pinning him against the wall).

The blade glisters and sprays red. It’s only a second, an intense glance, one last breath, blood gurgling, flooding his impossible long neck. Minho’s hands keep him still before he collapses on him, scarlet splashing his shoulders, flowing like rivers, painting the night like a nightmare. He has slandered his carotid, quick and effective, agonisingly bleeding to death. Minho pats his back, speaks reassuringly, explains to him why, lays him on the street when his body loses temperature; when he is gimped, calm and still, lifeless.

The road is empty this late and he has made sure there weren’t any CCTV watching, patrolling. It has been a rob turned violent and, in this neighbourhood, it happens a lot. He won’t be the first, neither the last and Minho keeps calm, walks as if nothing; as if his body wasn’t shaking, covered in blood and vile.

He burns the gloves and the hood once home, checks the phone before smacking it on the floor, tearing it apart, ripping its components as he has done with its owner, prints the pictures stored of Jinwoo and gets high with the aftermath, adrenaline running down his spine, drugging his sense, numbing his heart: he has done what needed to be done; that’s all. Now Jinwoo is lonely, too, will want to be by his side, will want to have someone around.

It takes two days for Jinwoo to call, broken voice and weary eyes.

“My boyfriend… Seunghoon, has been murdered,” he stutters, shocked and sad and Minho feint surprise pities him sincerely, rushes to his house, to the place where this man has taken him just a week ago (and Minho can see them laying together on Jinwoo’s bed, hearing the muffled sounds of kisses and grumbles and slickness).

He offers Jinwoo comfort and let him cry, hugs him, promises that, eventually, everything will be all right. He doesn’t say that he will be there, by him, replacing Seunghoon, but it is implied in the way he envelops him tightly, how he pats his back, the sweetness in his voice. He takes care of him, helps him move through the haze of mourning, to fill the lost inside his chest, the void shaped as Seunghoon, who has removed his heart, take it away (buried deep down inside his own grave).

Minho stops stalking; he doesn’t need any more, not when he has a free pass to Jinwoo’s house, not when he can meet him any time now. But beneath all his kindness, all his attempts, Minho sees clear that he is not over Seunghoon. He lets the name slip, he carries it underneath his bones, tattooed in his flesh and Minho can’t compete with a memory, with a ghost. Even if times flow and turn weeks into months, nothing changes (and he sinks deeper in love, digs a hole to lay down). He won’t convince Jinwoo, not with words or acts, not bathing him with money and expensive gifts, he isn’t budging, he dodges all of his tries, all his attempts to steal his heart. He is so far ahead, unreachable, insensible to Minho’s charms and spells and he is getting feed up.

He is talking about Seunghoon again and Minho is tired of listening, of never getting a simple sample of love, everything kept between them is just friendly and he wants more, has been holding his adoration, veiling it with sympathy and care, has turned his lust into handshakes. And he can’t stand this any longer, he needs Jinwoo, needs him now and knowing that he won’t ever be his clouds his mind.

The image crosses his mind first but, before, he will give Jinwoo a chance to answer, to explain himself. Minho holds his hands, stares into his eyes, bright, alive, that look back at him with all the colours of a late afternoon. 

"Do you think you can love me?" Minho murmurs, thumbs caressing his cheek, circling, slow-dancing. Jinwoo shivers, his mouth open, tongue shyly poking, provoking Minho's resistance. He cradles his cheek, the other one travelling up to hold his neck, gently pushing him in until his nose is brushing Jinwoo's. 

He doesn't wait for an answer and takes what he has been longing for, craving for so long. He kisses him hungrily, desperately, with force, seizing him to let him in, to ravish his lips. Jinwoo is kept between his arms, frozen, dull, unanimated (there is no reaction, he doesn't dwell into it, doesn't look to deepen it, he doesn't moan his name, grumbling lewd words in his ears). It is frustrating, even on that, a phantom has won. 

His hands range around his neck, long, pale, simmering under the caress of his palms, dark against white. At first, it's just a bit of pressure, his thumbs pressing his nape but then, gradually, he adds more force, the air getting caught in his throat. Jinwoo kicks, stir, tries to let go, but Minho is way stronger, talking to him in a low, sweet voice. 

“I had to kill him to be with you” he mutters amid gritted teeth, the force of all his longing, of all his love, "but, even then, you chooses him over me". Jinwoo shakes between his arms, convulsing, writhing, inhaling desperately, the air hot, burning, never reaching his lungs. "If I can't have you," he says, his voice wobbling with anger, with hate, "nobody can," and he jerks him, bones breaking and Jinwoo collapses over him. Minho holds onto him, talks to him about how deep is his love, how much does he need him, how he will always belong to Minho (now and forever because there is no end to his feelings). He licks his neck, nibs over his creamy skin the way he has always dream about (it thumbs with the last strokes of life, blood rushing, overflowing, palpitates under his palm). "Gosh, I always wanted to fuck you, such a pity you can't no longer feel," he continues, fingertips falling like rain, soaking his body, falling everywhere. There is no response to his advances and he sighs, defeated. 

He brushes his hair, kisses his forehead.

“Now you are mine,” he mumbles, tears rolling down, wipes them with the back of his hand. “You are mine because no-one can love you like I do, with so much intensity,” and he presses his lips against him and it feels morbid and pleasant and sick. He kisses him viciously, ferociously, one last time, tasting the ice on his lips. "You are so beautiful, so pretty," he mumbles, rocking his body, holding him like a doll, perfect, still and cold. "I'll be always watching you," he promises, sitting him on his chair, in front of the window, leaves the lights one to see him better. "I love you, Kim Jinwoo," he says, kissing his hair gently, naturally posturing him, turns the AC to preserve him better. 

He leaves the place, closes the door behind. 

From his balcony, he observes Jinwoo. Pale, precious, his eyes are dim and his hands are cold, bruises are blooming on his broken scruff, the same shape as Minho’s. But he won’t run away, won’t escape, won’t belong to anyone else but him. And Minho smiles, pleased, satisfied, drawing his face over the glass, idle patterns that gleam in the night. Jinwoo is not moving and Minho has all night long to contemplate this wonder, a whole life to observe him (until the police find him, dead, inside his room, four days later; but Minho has had time enough to memorise Jinwoo, has him engraved in his soul). 


End file.
